Memories
by Dr. Psycoticus
Summary: Rated for language and the fact that this is a slash story. Ophelia takes a walk down memory lane... "I Want You" part of which is in the story is the property of Bob Dylan.


MEMORIES

MEMORIES

…_the guilty undertaker sighs, the lonesome organ-grinder cries, the silver saxophones say I should refuse you. The cracked bells and washed out horns blow into my face with scorn, but it's not that way; I wasn't born to lose you. I want you…_

Ophelia lay back on her bed and sighed, letting her CD player relax her. Goth music was fine, but none of it spoke to her like Dylan could.

Today had, like most of her days, left her feeling like she either wanted to sleep for a week or jump off a bridge. A tear rolled from the corner one closed eye.

As she did nearly every day, Ophelia had spent quite some time in the company of _her_.

_Her_. Several more tears made the trek from eye to chin as she thought of her. Her obsidian-black hair with its one red highlight, her lightly-tanned skin, her deep-brown, almond-shaped eyes.

Love had not taken young Ophelia Ramirez warmly and tenderly by the hand; it had beckoned her close with promises of acceptance and tenderness, then kicked her legs out from under her, smacked her around a few times, then stabbed her in the back and laughed at her as she started to bleed out.

Her latest unrequited passion, Juniper Kim Lee, was that stab in the back. One can tell, Ophelia had found in possibly the worst way, when one is truly, passionately in love. One may believe one is experiencing such passion with lesser affairs, especially if it is one's first (Ophelia's first had been a particularly painful lesson, she recalled, all the more tearfully), but when one finally does happen upon such an experience, a certain sensation of something clicking into place is apparent.

Love is never easy for a fourteen-year-old lesbian. Especially not for one who has a nasty habit of finding girls who are either going through a faze or who are simply, plainly straight. _Or_, she thought, bringing up an old, painful memory despite herself. _Girls who have violent, holier-than-thou fathers_.

This particular story was that of love's third left-hook into her gut. At age twelve, her parents had sent her to summer-camp. "Maybe if she's around new people she'll cheer up," her parents had said to friends. _Right_, she thought bitterly. _That worked_.

She'd wandered about the camp alone for a few days, until she'd met a girl named Lisa. Lisa had been a born rebel, and some of her sentiments had made Ophelia herself become so rebellious later on. Thinking of this made Ophelia realize something about her rebellious turn. _How pathetic_, she thought, crying a bit harder now. _It's how I remember her_.

The two had hit it off quickly. They'd talked about all manner of things for days, both marveling at how much they had in common; both had been forced to come here, both had been at odds with the main stream, both had always had trouble with finding friends.

Lisa had started their romantic bonding at the end of the second week. "Have you ever had boyfriend?" she'd asked simply enough. Ophelia had struggled with herself. _Should I tell her? _she'd thought. She'd finally decided she would; she'd come to trust Lisa in a way she didn't trust anyone else.

She'd stated carefully that boys weren't her preferred company, and waited to see how she'd react. To Ophelia's relieved surprise, Lisa's only reaction was to state that she'd often thought she might by gay herself. The conversation hadn't gone beyond that, and they'd gone to bed (by happy accident, they'd been assigned to the same bunkhouse).

The next night, their series of conversations had led back to Ophelia's sexuality (Ophelia had been surprised to find that this didn't bother her in the slightest). The course of their talking had eventually led to Ophelia telling the sob-stories of her previous two beatings at the hands of that sadistic little prick named Cupid. Ophelia had shed a few tears, and Lisa had hugged her. The hug had led to them catching eyes, and that had to the second best kiss of Ophelia's life.

Lisa had become Ophelia's girlfriend, and the rest of that summer had been a blissful walk through wonderland. The camp councilors hadn't found out, and the two had gone on talking, hugging, and kissing. They'd both lost their virginity that summer, Ophelia remembered with a smile that only made her cry more.

Everything had gone wonderfully until camp had let out, one week before the end of summer. Lisa and Ophelia had been delighted to learn that they only lived two blocks away from each other. Toward the end of the week, they'd made the mutual decision to come out to their parents. Ophelia had made a common business of telling her parents she was gay. They'd given it the same mild reaction they gave to everything their daughter did or said. They didn't really care about her much, Ophelia suspected. The trouble had come when it came time to tell Lisa's father.

Lisa had been too scared to tell him alone, so Ophelia had stood next to her, ready to take her girlfriend's hand when Lisa needed her to. She had needed it, signaled by a pleading glance, just before she'd stated as clearly and simply as she could that she was with Ophelia.

Lisa's father had immediately turned fire-and-brimstone, quoting passages here, shouting and cursing and scaring his daughter half to death there. Lisa had only looked down and clutched Ophelia's hand all the tighter. When Ophelia concentrated, she thought she could still feel Lisa's soft hand, holding onto her in a death-grip.

Through all the shouting and cursing and preaching, Ophelia had stood her ground. She'd stood firm and still until the man had brought out a pistol and made a show of loading it. Lisa had pled with her to just leave for her own sake. Ophelia had, beginning to cry as she did.

When she'd gotten home, she'd sobbed and hoped against hope and begged whatever cruel bastard controls luck that things would go well, that maybe she and Lisa would be able to salvage things somehow. She'd hoped and hoped until the next day, when Lisa had been sent over to inform Ophelia that she was moving. Ophelia shared the best kiss of her life with Lisa after she said goodbye.

Memories of Lisa were always painful; she'd had felt that sensation of something clicking into place with her. Despite that, however, she'd never loved anyone as much as June. No one had ever tantalized or hurt her so much. No one had ever made her cry so much.

Overwhelmed by these thoughts, Ophelia sobbed loudly and rolled into a ball, lying on her side. As she had done so many times before, Ophelia fell asleep crying while the various works of Bob Dylan serenaded her in the background.


End file.
